Dear Mr.Trainer-
After careful deliberation, we have selected you to be one of the first artists to be on exhibit within Divergent Magazine. Your poem, dayworker, would be perfect within our pages. We would like the attached release signed by February 11th. Please also submit a brief bio and all credits needed (as you would like them to read in publication).
Congratulations again and we look forward to running this piece!
Divergent Magazine
I was in clover on Jan 1 and shacked up with a million heiress out in Hill Country. But she ran down some bad voodoo on me. Black Magick. Jan 2 I walked into a cold warehouse in the barrio. You might think I was nuts to leave her. Why would I leave her smooth, shaved legs, her oils and her sutras, sex at anytime and all my needs met and paid for? I don’t know. But leave I did and she put the black magick to me.
Everything started out ok. It was 77degrees. The car started. I reached into my shirtsleeve pocket and I had two cigarettes left. She was livid and flapping about the car, a real mess, but there was a Hank Snow song on the radio so I turned it up loud. I rolled up the windows and I locked the doors. Old Hank was drowning out her screams. I backed down the drive and rode out of Hill Country.
Its strange. I don’t remember much after that.
I remember someone asking me for my social security number and I remember putting on the coat and badge. I remember the man came down and I followed him in.
The next 30days are a mystery.
I came to at a sports bar in Austin Bergstrom International. I knew the girl’s name I was talking to was Julie. I knew she worked in retail and that she was from Chicago. I looked down at the puddles of beer on the table and I saw the badge. A check was on the table, made out to me for $444 and 56cents and getting wet. Julie crossed her stockinged legs high and fine, her top leg swinging a little. I felt lucky. It was a long sleep and a deep spell but Julie was a real spitfire. I was thanking the gods of luck and raising my glass gladly despite the fact I couldn’t recount the last 30days of my life.
Going for the Throat 